Page 16

‘Ah, the bounty of liberal guilt,’ I say as I survey the cornucopia of donations for this absurd ‘Love Day’ upon arrival at the school.

‘Liberal guilt tastes better than hunger,’ Andy muses as he picks up a jar. ‘Although what the feck someone who can’t afford a sliced white is going to put with their artisanal sweet onion marmalade is anyone’s guess . . .’

‘It’s bourgeois fly-tipping,’ I scoff. ‘People merely offloading the excesses of their gluttony and claiming it in the name of charity. Charity isn’t charity unless it costs you something.’

‘Is that what I am?’ Andy grins at me. ‘Am I your artisanal sweet onion marmalade?’

‘You’re a pain in my artisanal,’ I quip back as we arrive at my office.

I insert the key to unlock my office door. Andrews’s open-door policy is an affront to personal privacy and I shan’t be participating. But my door is already unlocked. This is most irregular. I always lock my door. For very good reason . . .

‘Oh, y,’ Andy whispers in my ear as we walk into my office. ‘Someone been geggin’ in your dodgy dealings . . . ?’

‘I must have forgotten to lock it,’ I say, still fairly confident I did not. ‘Now go and do your job. And shut the door behind you . . .’

‘Yes, boss,’ he calls out with a mocking salute, swaggering off down the hallway towards the kitchen and leaving my door wide open. The man is immune to closing doors, front, back and, most disconcertingly, lavatorial . . . But I can’t help but smile behind his back as I close it on his behalf. Perhaps I’m being paranoid. I’ve been somewhat distracted lately – not least by Andy. And I refuse to let it spoil my chipper mood. We’ve just been out for a bite and I’m feeling replete with blessings and breakfast.

Last night when I returned home from a late governor’s meeting, Andy had prepared the most beautiful seafood linguine – I didn’t even have to buy the ingredients. This makes me deeply dubious about their provenance, but what the eye can’t see, the heart can’t grieve . . . And so this morning I took him out to ‘Toast’, some kind of temporary, cash-only establishment of his choosing (Andy calls it a ‘pop up’, I call it a ‘tax dodge’) where he entreated me to try something titled ‘smashed avo on sourdo’.

Quite why this Lauraceae had to be subjected to such violence was beyond me, but I admit it made a refreshing change from my usual sliced grapefruit and a hard-boiled egg. Those who customarily cohabit will be inured to the simple pleasure of dining a deux . I had almost forgotten the convivial delight of sharing a table with another human, discussing trivialities over toast. And how invigorating it can be when that other person introduces you to new things – I confess to being a little set in my ways. I’ve never considered myself a lonely person – I have always enjoyed, preferred indeed, my own company. But, rather like avo on sourdo, perhaps one doesn’t know what one’s missing until it is placed in front of you. So overall my experience at Toast was a pleasant enough way to spend an early Wednesday morning. Although I will require rather more persuading as to why I was unable to order a simple coffee without a working knowledge of Italian and fourteen assorted milk alternatives.

My office phone rings.

‘Yes,’ I reply curtly. I see no need for extraneous greetings at this point in the day.

‘Mr Baxendale,’ Marcia from the office replies, remembering as she always does that staff should be addressed by their full title and surname. ‘Your nine o’clock is here.’

‘Send them down,’ I say, referring to my desk diary to see who has the displeasure.

Ah, Priya Mistry. Interesting character. Her background is in law enforcement, but I could see a future for her in the secret service. Or the Cosa Nostra – she has an air of clandestine authority that would work well in either field. I’m not easily disconcerted. But Ms Mistry has retained an air of interrogation that I must be mindful to tread around carefully.

There is a knock on the door and, atypically, I get up to open it. When she joined us two years ago, Ms Mistry asked for several modifications to be made to allow her electric wheelchair access to our Victorian building. I refused to finance most of them, so this extra effort feels like a fair concession.

‘Priya,’ I say brightly (parents should be addressed by first names only). ‘What a pleasure to see you this fine morning.’

‘Blimey,’ she says, wheeling past me suspiciously – she does everything suspiciously, ‘someone’s had their Weetabix.’

I smile to myself as I think of my pummelled avocado. Its effects are clearly palpable.

I return to my desk chair and lean forward in a show of interest.

‘How is young Anya settling in?’

She raises an eyebrow.

‘This is her second year, ,’ she deadpans. ‘She’s been here longer than most of her teachers.’

This is why I don’t fritter time away on small talk. And I’ll even overlook the lack of correct address. That avocado is playing havoc with my sense of propriety.

‘So glad. What can I do for you?’

‘I’d like to submit a request for a translation upgrade for Parentchat,’ says Priya, removing some paperwork from her bag and handing it over to me. I skim it, but I already know it will have been filled in correctly. Priya Mistry has a rare and pleasing eye for details.

‘Translation software?’ I summarise. ‘To what end?’

‘As our community diversifies – and not before time, might I add, Flatford is as monochrome as a magnolia paint chart – it’s becoming clear that certain of our parents . . . er, carers, er guardians . . .’

‘I believe today’s terminology is “supporting adults”,’ I say with the incline of my eyebrows that such nonsense deserves.

‘Yes – they are unable to access much of the school communication as they do not speak sufficient English.’

‘I see,’ I say, leaning back in my chair and preparing my ‘no’. ‘So . . . you’re asking the school to subsidise the decision made by certain families to migrate to a country in which they do not speak the language?’

‘I suppose I am,’ she says with a dangerous smile. ‘Although I’m not sure how much choice you think the Kovalenko family had when they left Ukraine. Or Mariam Darwish when she travelled here heavily pregnant after her husband was killed in Syria. In fact, now I think about it, I’m not sure Adel’s trip here from Afghanistan was a Disney cruise . . .’

She’s lucky I’m in a good mood. As such, I’m prepared to consider her point.

‘I think there are broader applications that justify the cost,’ she continues. ‘The software can also be used in the classroom for students and will even live translate online meetings, which would enable families without much English to access home learning and virtual meetings, as well as making school life more accessible to anyone who is Deaf or hard of hearing . . .’

She drifts off and I note her eyes wandering across my desk to Bootleg Barry’s handiwork. Andy’s useful local knowledge, it has transpired, extends beyond Toast. She can’t possibly know what they are, but I’m uncomfortable with her being even faintly aware of their existence.

‘Sorry,’ I say with faux mortification, ‘such a mess.’

I sweep the statements into a folder and put them in my drawer. Away from Priya eyes, if you will . . . I smile at my internal joke. I’m, as they inaccurately say, on fire today.

‘What did I miss?’ Priya asks in her clipped way.

‘Sorry?’ I ask, my mind still celebrating my bon mot s.

‘The joke?’ she says. ‘Or whatever just made you smile. An odd response to a serious conversation, Mr Baxendale?’

The smile drops from my face. Priya Mistry also has an inconvenient and invasive eye for details. Come along, . Stay alert.

‘My apologies, it’s a busy time,’ I say smoothly, looking back over her proposal before folding it up and returning it to her. ‘And this is a considerable extra item of capital expenditure that I can’t possibly justify to the governors with budgets as they are.’

Priya looks at me coolly before removing another piece of paper from her bag.

‘Is that so?’ she says. ‘And yet, with this software, the school would be able to accommodate more children for whom English is not their first language. ‘Children who receive a not-insignificant government subsidy. I’ve done some rough sums.’

She hands over a printout of a spreadsheet. I mentally check her calculations. They are meticulous. She is right – the cost of the software would be amply covered by just one additional EAL pupil. Any more and we’d be in profit.

‘I see,’ I tell her, putting her paper to one side. ‘Now you’re talking my language.’

And there I am again! This must be how Oscar Wilde felt. Although if Ms Mistry understood my joke, she’s not sharing it.

‘So?’ she asks impudently.

‘So,’ I reply deliberately. ‘I will have to run a full cost analysis – but, in principle, it sounds like an excellent enhancement to our school community.’

‘Or an excellent enhancement to your school coffers?’ she not incorrectly surmises.

‘Virtue is its own reward,’ I tell her.

‘And no good deed goes unpunished,’ she quotes back. What does she mean by that? What does she know . . . ?

‘What the actual FUCK, ?’

The volcanic verbal eruption at my door frame makes us both startle and enquire after the source of the interruption.

‘You all right, Kiera?’ says Priya, with no small degree of amusement. ‘Has cut your crayon budget?’

‘Screw you, Priya,’ she snaps. ‘ – I need to talk to you. Now.’

Her unprofessionalism makes me positively tumescent with rage.

‘As you can see, Mrs Fisher,’ I veritably spit at her, ‘I am in a meeting with a parent . . .’

‘Oh, don’t mind me,’ Priya says, reversing her wheelchair and heading for the door. ‘I’m done. You’re all hers. Bye, both.’

She wheels out of the room to a scowl from Kiera, who slams the door shut behind her. I want to stand up, but I find myself presently unable.

‘Might I remind you, Mrs Fisher,’ I remonstrate with Kiera, ‘that we are required to hold ourselves to the highest possible standards of professionalism at all times at St Nonnatus and that offensive outburst is—’

‘You turned her down,’ she says, slamming a form down on my desk. ‘You turned my Grace down for the hardship funding. Why?’

I peer at the paper, although I know exactly what it is. I’ve been bodily anticipating this discussion from the moment I signed it.

‘Firstly,’ I say more calmly, ‘I didn’t turn Grace down for anything. You submitted the application. It is you I am declining.’

‘Why?’ she asks again. ‘On what grounds?’

‘You said it yourself,’ I respond. ‘It is a Hardship Fund. Respectfully, your family’s income does not meet our definition of hardship.’

‘Your “definition” was made before it cost ￡80 to fill a bloody car with petrol! Before our gas bill tripled! Before our mortgage nearly doubled! So – respectfully – you can stick your sodding “definition” up your arse!’

She is practically panting with ire. It’s delicious.

‘Mrs Fisher,’ I say glacially, ‘do you recall the conversation we had last February about teaching assistant salaries?’

‘The one where I told you that your zero-hour contracts were bordering on infringing modern anti-slavery laws?’

‘The very same,’ I reply with a smile. ‘And, courtesy of your rabble rousing amongst the support staff, you were all put on salary last March. Am I correct?’

‘You know you are,’ she seethes.

‘So you now earn a salary of eighteen thousand pounds per annum?’

‘Your point?’

I pause for as long as I can without disgracing myself.

‘In order to be eligible for consideration for the Hardship Fund, at least one . . . supporting adult . . . must be earning seventeen thousand pounds or under.’

‘ What? Since when?’ she rages.

I smile at her like Eve’s serpent.

‘Since last March.’

Her chest heaves and her hands twitch.

‘You said anyone could apply,’ she glowers.

‘And I was entirely correct,’ I point out. ‘But I didn’t say everyone was eligible. You need to learn that you can’t break all the rules—’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she interrupts. I’ve hit a nerve. Good. I drop my voice to a low whisper. It’s a touch dramatic, but the circumstances call for it. I lean towards her.

‘You know very well what I mean,’ I tell her. Even though I’m not at all sure she does.

Her fingers curl. I think she’s going to slap me.

What a delectable proposition.

After a few heaving breaths, she calms herself and lifts those limpid, defiant eyes to me.

‘You’ll get yours, ,’ she finally glowers. ‘If I have to give it to you myself.’

She turns on her heel and storms out of the door – where she nearly trips over Priya Mistry, who has clearly been eavesdropping outside.

‘You okay, Kiera?’ Priya goads. ‘You seem a little . . . het up?’

‘Get out the damn way!’ Kiera yells at her. ‘And mind your own fucking business!’

‘I would have done,’ Priya grins, looking straight at me. ‘But someone wouldn’t finance wheelchair-accessible doors . . .’